First Class: Polo

Polo players are fond of saying the only way to get out of the sport is go broke or die. It’s not an alluring sentiment to the vast majority of the population who can’t quite afford six ponies, a couple of Land Rovers and a ranch. And as someone from a northern industrial British town, I’m as likely to be found playing a chukka as asking Jeeves to give the Bentley a good scrub. But in Argentina, polo is much more accessible. For $200 US I could enjoy a private class, a barbecue lunch and a chukka or two before seeing how the professionals do it.

With my horse experience limited to a donkey dash at the school fair, hopes weren’t particularly high I would be bullying off in the Argentine Open, but with our helpful host Estani of El Rincon del Polo, my wife and I had a great laugh, though mainly at my expense. 

Arriving at the polo mecca of Open Door, 40 kilometres from Buenos Aires, we start the day with a coffee and a history lesson of the world’s oldest team sport. In short: Sixth-century BC Persians invent game, it spreads to India where posh British blokes with moustaches formalize it and take it around the world. It arrives in Argentina in the mid-19th century where gauchos already play a similar, if not a little darker game called pato(duck). And yes, a (briefly) live duck was used. It meant Argentines took to the English game like, well, the proverbial duck. Today, Argentines dominate polo, winning every world championship since 1949, and of the 10 players in the world to hold a perfect 10 handicap, all are from Argentina.

It is time for a lesson, and I hop on a “pony” ready to master the Game of Kings. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to hit an eight-centimetre ball with the end of a 1.3-metre mallet atop a galloping horse, but believe me, easy it is not. (Sylvester Stallone described polo as playing golf in an earthquake.) But with some unfailingly patient instruction from the expert Estani, I narrow my chances of hitting the ball to, oh, at least one in 20.

After stopping to watch a professional game and discussing tactics over an Argentine meat feast — an asado— we head back to the ranch for our first chukka. Now sporting the full polo regalia, I at least look like a polo player and let’s face it, that’s what it’s all about.

Playing second fiddle to a nine-year-old boy named Cholito doesn’t do wonders for the confidence, but how can charging around the field on a horse, barging into the opposition and swinging a big mallet not be fun? Finally Cholito lines up the ball in front of the goal, my horse “Chocolate” and I gallop (OK, trot) up to the ball, I lean over, and strike the ball through the posts. GOOOOOLLLAZZZOOO!

And at that moment I decide to dedicate my entire next lottery win to the game.

» elrincondelpolo.com •  


Photo Courtesy: Daniel Neilson